There’s nothing on Undress that diminishes her as a songwriter; it’s just that it seems a mistake to strip some fine tracks of what made them so enthralling in the first place.

The Wytches have proved themselves a genuinely intriguing proposition, one with far more up their sleeves than just straight-up punk raucousness, but that also have evidently not quite got a handle on how best to present themselves on record, either--given that this is their first effort, though, that’s entirely forgivable.

White Is Relic/Irrealis Mood is, in essence, a very solid new of Montreal album.

13 Blues… scores 10 in almost every sense, but to award such an accolade would imply this is a record never to be bettered.

Away from the lyrics, there’s a nagging feeling that, like The Only Place, California Nights isn’t going to blow too many people away with its mostly familiar-feeling content.

Kaleide is immediate and it rarely dulls, bar the slow start to "Anjelica Huston," before it bursts out into sparkling keyboards at the tail end.

Minor criticisms aside, this is elegant dreampop at its finest, and a worthy introduction to the incandescent world of Snowbird.

Song construction isn’t quite as nifty and complex as, say, Grizzly Bear, but there are plenty of moments to keep you coming back for more.

Thee More Shallows have, in a short time, perfected their sound to an extent that they can take multiple left turns without losing their way.

There's a sort of admirable purity to this approach, and it suggests that if Animal Collective decide they'd like to make brilliant albums again then probably will, but this time they're probably better off painting alone.

Frantic and calculatedly assured.

Too often, though, this record slips into a comfort zone that, while making it impossible to generally dislike, renders it hard to get excited about.

What this duo have is exactly that – heart. They also have balls to spare, but don't tell them that – those little fellas get into all kinds of trouble. Wouldn't want to worry them.

The first half of Torches is its collective zenith, and although things pick up towards the end of the album by the strategically placed 'Pumped Up Kicks', you can't shake the feeling that Foster has simply stretched the party vibe over as many songs as he can before the momentum runs out.

This is a piece of chewed-out gum; with no viable nutrition, no flavour and no joy. Do yourself a favour and spit it out.

The end product is stern, frigid and heavy minimalist-techno, which also happens to be pop as ...: urgent, impatient, sculpted, immediate, and incident-packed.

There's something impenetrable about it, an obtuse level of abstraction and a slightly joyless delivery that really leaves this listener with no point of entry at times.

It's got an edge, moreso than Astro Coast, and that element of creeping unease makes Pythons a fuller, more mature and honest album than its precursor.

Unpatterns feels like less of a discrete instalment in a collection and more an accomplished blend of the two things James Ford and Jas Shaw do best--gigantic, open-armed, open-air pop, and femur-fracturing analogue techno.

Stylistically there is a different kind of freedom (there is even a nod to garage rock on ‘The Queen Of All Returns’) that seems less about affectation or indulgence and more about adhering to the spirit of each individual song, making for harder-fought but longer lasting rewards.

There’s no staggering departure from Total Loss, but the backdrop for his soulful R&B crooning is becoming worn-out, and you can feel Krell auditioning replacements.

There’s some interest to be found but for the most part he displays a real lack of daring.

You can hear a band recognising that the journey is important as the destination, and the process important as the final product.

Somewhat uneasy listening in places, yet sublime in others, Given To The Wild should rid The Maccabees of those 'landfill' jibes once and for all.

Rather than functioning as simple b-side fodder, the four tracks which shape Earth Division are all totally different, yet just as essential as the album from which they were excluded.

After the sass and bluster of the first half, the record settles into a rather one-dimensional groove.

It’s an intriguing and refreshing listen.

As a body of work, Golden Worry is a fine representation of Thank You mk. II that allays any fears their fanbase may have had about the band seeking more commercial pastures with their new drummer.

The chronological running order of Absolute Garbage is also unfortunate as it renders the CD impotent halfway through.

It’s not a step forward, really, it’s a step to the side. There are still hints of the pop star Zayn was drowning out the RnB icon he wants to become.

If you hate Ben Folds, you’ll hate this album just as much as anything else he’s ever done. If you’re a fan, you’ll be quietly satisfied.

Although, Gough has always said that he finds music instantaneous and the lyrics the hardest part to write, It's What I'm Thinking showcases Gough at his most insightful to the human condition and himself.

The ten songs which make up Everything Last Winter drift along without saying anything at all.

When AiC hit home though, as they often do, Black Gives Way To Blue becomes the quiet triumph it set out to be.

The trio trade lines like they’re flashing secret handshakes to each other--it’s a complex process, fingers flying and interlocking, each gesture laden with meanings that an outsider can’t even fathom.

Do It is simply a case of Clinic once again doing what they do best; but with a new-found vigour that rediscovers the confident swagger of earlier releases while building upon realms explored on later excursions.

Whatever magic they once had appears to have deserted them.

Ultimately, Lex Hives sadly conforms to the patchy-at-best trajectory of the band's major label releases, but at least does so while taking a decisive step back in the direction of being the ferocious rock band which The Hives unvaryingly claim to still be, and indeed unquestionably once were.

Despite the fact that a few of these nineteen tracks could easily have been cut, or that its mid-tempo pacing may drive it dangerously close to sounding monotonous, the evidence still points to that of a songwriter clawing back to his best.

Sure, Two Gallants might take a good four tracks to get going, but the five that follow are outstanding--alive, almost.

This album is grounded. Slightly lost and, sadly, all too findable.

Mice Parade have never before been quite this accessible.

If French-born London émigrés John & Jehn don’t quite succeed in nailing the stroppy friction of their live shows over the course of their self-titled debut, third base is at least within groping distance.

This is a collection of elegantly assembled, fat-free pop songs, made from light and air and heart, and great choruses.

On the moments that they commit to one priority over the other, Crushed Beaks show an energetic flair which most likely translates to a blistering live sound. But when they try to split the difference, the results are middling on Scatter.

Each song on Adult is smashed into, torn apart and then scattered like feathers from a pillow. And there is nothing, nothing, better than hearing guitars being pummelled on a double down-stroke as a bass line tries frantically to keep up on sixteenths.

As left field and innovative as they come, and while that doesn't always make for the easiest of listens, Invocation and Ritual Dance of My Demon Twin should be applauded for daring to tread where many others would whimper at the thought.

The album as a whole is amongst the best showcases of her piano work because she allows herself to meander about the keyboard and never lets production to drown it out.

This is one for the ‘pleasant but unremarkable’ file, and it seems that’s all the band was striving for in the first place.

This ultimately is Untogether’s crowning victory: despite being mapped by its lack of psychological surroundings, this firmly inward-looking record transports you head-first to Blue Hawaii’s special place, a serene vista where alien syllabic whimsy feels genuinely spiritual, and fuck-giving is most strictly forbidden.

The only spoiler is Sam Herlihy’s lack of vocal abilities.

This project is evidently a labour of love for Polachek, allowing her to capture moods and ideas in the immediacy of the moment. But the result isn’t matured enough to be considered a definitive statement of artistry.

Sadly, moments of well executed originality are thin on the ground, as indeed are examples of the band effectively channeling the transcendental shoegaze of their established contemporaries.

With Oczy Mlody, The Flaming Lips have managed to take us on apocalyptic journey that’s also fun, which is no mean feat. If the 'real' end of the world is half as fun, we’ll all be alright.

The result is a collection of workmanlike indie-rock songs that fall some way short of being a good album and a long, long way from being the work of a Godlike Genius.

Tokyo Police Club have finally made small sound huge.

When the beats eventually die down the album shows its soft underbelly.

The conviction put into every moment of this record, much like that they put into every second of their original reunion shows, makes Freedom a more than worthwhile comeback.

Trouble is, B-sides have never exactly been Albarn’s strong suit, thanks mainly to his incurable dilettantism and aforementioned onanistic tendencies.

My Best Friend Is You is, indubitably, rather daring for a mainstream pop album. Yet for all the Butler-begat polish, it's hard to work out whether it really is a mainstream pop album.

The Habitat EP shows the heart of a band who are effortlessly versatile and willing to mutate, experiment and push in whichever direction they goddamn please.

Days of Abandon lets the songs breathe and ultimately speak for themselves.

This is their best yet and possibly the best of the year.

Black Pompadour is not a bad album, it’s just flat; it’s delivered with little to no passion, meaning that listening to it in its entirety will be a test of patience for some.

What we’re left with is an 8/10 EP stretched way past the point of interest, five or six songs in you start knocking half a mark off with every fresh coat of same-old. A worthy idea, but one you’ll rarely reach for twice.

Amongst the nine tracks are some of Black's best work but although the album's ambience shifts - from the darkness in 'Black Suit' and 'Long Song' to the whimsy in 'Volcano!' and the breezy 'Break The Angels'--the consistency does not.

A glossy Sixties pop sheen hasn’t just been splattered wholesale over every track but instead nicely integrated resulting in a new and engaging, but hardly incongruous, Rumble Strips noise.

While Broderick’s prescription is perfectly phrased for its purpose, as a stand-alone collection of music it has accompanying adverse side effects, i.e. it's not really a very enjoyable listen.

Holy Ghost! is an interesting album and much of the production is loving, well-crafted homage to some wonderfully overlooked disco genres.

Glow, then, is generally a mixed bag, gothic, cinematic and made for large spaces and big stages.

Vezelay's sensual poetics melding into Rix-Martin and Paradinas' lush electronica on an album of retro-futuristic pop that improves with each spin and shimmers bright with widescreen radiance.

Pattern of Excel is a difficult album. It subverts your expectations and deliberately goes against what convention would suggest in terms of direction and vibe.

his is The Veils as you would expect to find them, untroubled too much by changes to their formula. And that’s just the way that most of their loyal fans would probably want it.

You can’t say it’s a great album for 2009 when it would have been a merely good one in 1981. But it is good, fitfully very good, and when considered alongside Cremations, this two year old band have build up an undeniably impressive body of work.

Thankfully, One Thousand Pictures was well worth the wait.

Confident song structures, accomplished, fearless vocals and beautifully put-together instrumentation, Heartstrings will coax the band's early fans into forgiving them for their previous offerings.

A New Nature breathes more freely than anything this group has ever produced before and, as such, showcases a more confident and coherent band than one may reasonably have expected.

X-Treme Now is an intriguing, often entertaining bit of art from a duo that seem locked into a long-running lark that sometimes, perhaps accidentally or even incidentally, delivers the genuine article, sometimes makes do with platitudes and sidelong, distancing glances, but more often than not is a summery slab of fun.

While Caer stumbles over artifice at the gate, Twin Shadow eventually rebuilds a vibrant pallet to unload actual confessions that other lonely listeners can relate to.

For all the sonic acrobatics though, it’s a record that feels like it’s missing something vital.

There are those that will love this record, for whom it will be the gateway into earlier, richer work. But for those of us who have already been spellbound by what Ben Bridwell can create, this is simply not enough.

There's nothing wrong with making demands of the listener, but there's little to no reward to be found across these eight increasingly alienating compositions.

While the instrumental augmentation in most of the songs is impressive, the setlist feels less immediate than the band's past work.

Thankfully there’s enough genuinely high quality Fall material here to ensure that any newcomers to the band are fairly sure to move directly from ‘Quit iPhone’ to ‘Frightened’, ‘The Classical’, ‘New Big Prinz’ or another classic Fall album opener.

Whereas at times in the past it seemed like he was searching for his place in the crowded field of modern singer-songwriters and in danger of sounding too much like others, here he clearly finds his own voice. ... This is a really fine album.

In concert, the results of these expanded horizons will sit among an enhanced and emboldened set list. On record, though, this feels an uneven entry; too self-conscious in its attempt to transcend the expectations of contemporary Welsh language music.

Overall, Clash The Truth isn't so much a departure from Beach Fossils' playful innocence as a more a mature statement of intent documenting Payseur's coming of age as both a musician and songwriter.

It may take some perseverance to get on board here with Gibson’s vision--but, if you achieve that, then you’ll be rewarded with a record that’s as beguiling as it is strange.

More often than not though, Seasick Steve is just as fun, lively and instantly likeable as ever.

The result is a bright and breezy album that’s easy to like, even if Dawn’s palpable enthusiasm does occasionally tip over into being cloying.

Stevens and Vogel have been playing together for almost 22 years now, if you can believe that, and We Are Undone is a fine addition to their catalogue.

It’s not they’ve gone back on themselves or regressed; it’s just that Band of Horses have naturally, and happily, managed to wind their way back home.

In trying to be all things to all fans, all critics, all expectations, all click-bait corners, Harry Styles has failed to make a defining statement.

Fourteen years on from their last outing, A Perfect Circle’s return to active duty as a living, breathing band is broadly speaking a good thing for the hard rock scene. Just don’t expect a record which silver plates their stellar reputation.

Ultimately, it's an enjoyable record, but one that's more likely to point you in the direction of their original influences than achieve notability in its own right.

Pink Friday wins merely on points, rather than the knockout punch it should have been.

There are some minor criticisms with Underrated Silence, the most obvious being the similarity between most of its ten pieces.

Even by their own standards, the lack of posing or pretence on this LP is startling; it’s a raw, bare-bones affair with nothing in the way of embellishment.